Feb. 6th, 2012


Feb. 6th, 2012 05:48 pm
thulcandran: (Default)
Haha. Oh, childhood. You never fail to tweak my triggers. Thanks to Tray-Gnome, for the prompt: Duck, Milk, Hubcap.

When we stumble through the world, wondering at the ruins astride our paths, there are certain images that stand apart, clear like a reflection on the puddles that litter this road, darkling in the orange sodium lights, undistorted.

The night is not cold, the rain has long passed, and there is a fresh, vivid cleanness to the air that betrays my mood and pierces the gloom I seek to gather around me, moving through the streets and crowds like an angry shadow, cloaked in silence and bearing the fallen messages I have sown like weapons in the dark.

It's not quite dark yet, either; the sun is but lately set, and the darkest parts of the sky are still behind me, as I walk, quite unintentionally, towards the sunset, into the dying light. The only part of this image, I think, that I might choose - the dying light, as the night gathers at my back.

The banks of that mighty river stand before me, the wind rushing loud and swift through the riverside trees, roaring in the near-empty branches, soft though it falls on my shoulders; the surface of that great water is not so clear as the puddles I avoid, and no image shows but the scattered, broken lights of the bridge upon its waves.

The banks, though, the banks are strangely lit, in my mind's eye - the image is, I know, not one that truly exists, only in memory. A pond, far off, a dirty blanket to hide the cleaner grass beneath, the gaggle of violets scattered between the trees, the stone wall, built by cunning stonework and the thrift of pioneers, rather than mortar or binding joints, and the shallowness the shade has hidden, in the pond itself - though still, in our innocence and wonder, we avoided its edges for fear of drowning, and the scolding of the fowl who watched us on their banks.

A clean drink, what now would cloud my throat and fog my voice, to wash away the bitter thoughts, the worry of dark crusted bread, the fear of the thinness it hid, the thoughts that came unbidden and could not be hidden, the laughter none can hear, the prayers that none can utter, and further glances to the feathers and their filth beneath, the unclean that I now seek out in the shadows, on the banks of this great river, in the twilight of the early night.

The feathers are now nowhere to be seen, washed away by an errant wave, gathered by a watchful fisherman, trodden off by beaching canoes, and all that is left, beneath the unwanted nostalgia-tainted image, is the flotsam, silt-gray and melting against the power of wind and water, engine bits and towers that could be, hubcaps fractured and unknown things, cast-off bones of the city beyond the bridge, whose lights now scatter across the broken waters.

Images of the night that now surrounds me are uninvited, as the last folly of a shadow falls from my eyes, and no less welcome, if more real, than the nostalgia that tauntingly wafts around the images of still water, and clean feathers.


thulcandran: (Default)

May 2013


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